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While walking in the woods near my house,
I came upon a lost glove-
it was just sitting there undisturbed and unmoved
on a bush at the foot of a tree;
a lone glove, which I couldn’t tell
if it was intended to be worn on the left hand or on the right;
a lone glove that for some reason had been parted from its pairing,
which lay as if it had fallen from above,
instantly intrigued me, made me smile, and made me wonder
what and who had brought it here to the middle of the forrest
only to leave it- something just didn’t seem right.

Every time I returned to my favourite place to walk,
to think, and to marvel at Mother Nature,
I always made a point to go to where I knew the multi-coloured
and multi-patterned glove continued to lie;
for weeks, months, maybe,
I returned and to my delight the glove remained where it always was-
it always brightened my day to see it, for some reason-
maybe it was the randomness of the sight of a lone glove, a lost glove,
far-away from the hand of anyone, that amused me,
and also inspired me in some way.

One day, I returned to the woods,
I took the same path that I always take-
I walked and I looked in anticipation of seeing the lost glove,
but it was nowhere to be seen-
I walked the same path again and again, over and over,
but all I saw in the place that I remembered it being
was just a multitude of growing green.
The first time I saw the glove,
I had thought that its sudden appearance
and consequent reappearances were a sign, an insight,
an easter-egg into the inner-workings of chaos,
nature, choice, subtlety, fun;
and when I realised that the glove was gone-
it had been picked up by someone else,
reclaimed by its former owner,
or it had been taken by an animal-
I felt genuinely sad;
but every time I walk passed where it was, even now,
I wonder where it came from.

The glove that was once lost was found by me.
I did not take it, I did not claim it,
but for a short-time it was a talisman to me,
a charm of life that I was always pleased to see,
a seed of joy, a flower of hope that grows in my imagination,
which I am in-awe of;
and that is why I will never forget the autumn days
of the lost glove.

My thoughts, my poetry, my life,
is so precious to me.
When I think of something,
when something completely random and unprovoked
pops into my head;
when I pick up my pen
and I write down something that inspires me for some reason,
even if it is a single word,
I can’t tell you how content I feel;
when something as complicated and nuanced as a thought
becomes real because ity can now be seen, spoken, and read.

I wrote my first poem
because I wanted to tell someone that I loved them.
It was the best feeling in the world
when the words first started to come to me in my hour of need
and began flowing from me to the empty page.
The time that I spent writing that first expression of my feelings
for someone who I didn’t know, other than that I loved them,
was, and still remains, one of the most awe-inspiring, fulfilling,
incredible, and magic moments, of my life.
The words just flowed so easily,
like a stream of pure inspiration and love-
and since then I have been in love with writing and expressing
thoughts, dreams, feelings, memories, in all ways and words.
Sharing the essence of something,
using the limited conduit of words and language
to impress upon someone what remains to be imagined,
relived, interpreted, pondered on and about, questioned,
in the same way that you ask yourself and others for days afterwards
how a magician was able to accomplish their spell-binding illusion.

Words are magic. Writers are wizards.
Most people don’t remember what they said, when, or why,
but a writer can never forget-
it is in their nature to tell the world stories of the greatest depths,
and of the most soaring of heights.
It is in a witer’s DNA to create a world
that is of its own space and for its own time,
but a writer strives to be enduring, to live forever,
to write an eternal epitaph that continuously makes people think
and re-read what has been written and read,
and changing the way that they imagine the words
coming to life in their head.

You can’t capture everything in words,
in pictures, or in music, alone;
but with the gift of memory, connection, curiosity,
and an undying need to never let even the smallest of insights of life
from falling through our fingers,
we leave great artifacts for future generations,
scattered like pieces of a vast mosaic,
that to be fully-understood they need to be read, seen, and heard,
as one, and together.

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